


Yarn

by chronicAngel



Series: Concresce [10]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Chores, F/M, Fluff, POV Third Person, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 19:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronicAngel/pseuds/chronicAngel
Summary: yarnv. tell a long or implausible story





	Yarn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mikorins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikorins/gifts).



Lux enjoys chores because they give her something orderly and routine to focus on, a much less bitter reminder of her much less bitter days with the Radiant Ones. Ezreal enjoys chores, apparently, because they give him an excuse to be around her all day.

She supposes that after a month in Demacia, she should not have been surprised to find dishes piled high in the sink when she first visits Ezreal. It is not that he is incapable, she knows that he isn't. She supposes he just doesn't have interest in doing more than the bare minimum required to get by, or at the very least is so distracted with all of the other little tasks and adventures he fills his days with that he doesn't notice the buildup. (Part of her wonders if he doesn't leave it so she'll clean with him when she comes back.)

"You can't keep doing this," she says, exasperated, as she passes him a newly clean dish to dry.

"Doing what?" He asks, but his voice gives away that he knows what she's talking about and so she only rolls her eyes.

She scrubs at a particularly picky plate (she thinks it is covered in some sort of sauce that has dried on with days) with a sponge that she will throw away the moment she is done with all of the dishes and goes over the list of things she still has to do. The laundry she has hung outside will not be dry for another hour or two, so she supposes she has time to do... _anything_ with the little garden in his yard that she has told herself during her last three visits she was going to fix up (and she still wants so badly to ask about it, but doesn't because she is afraid of the answer and how giving it might hurt him).

She thinks that perhaps if she has a lot of spare time she can sort his books, and this is the last she thinks of chores before he reaches over to turn his sink off and then moves to stand in front of her. There's a distinct look in his eyes, the same one she has seen in him a thousand times. She takes a step back as he steps forward, her back pressing up against the counter, but it is too small to put any real distance between them and his lips come against hers naturally.

"Ezreal," she murmurs against his mouth, and he hums but does not pull away which has her rolling her eyes at him again. "We're cleaning," she reminds him, and he does not pull back very far.

"I haven't seen you in a _month_ and all you're thinking about is how messy my house is?" He says, eyebrows raised, but his tone is more amused (if slightly incredulous) than actually offended. _Of course not_ , she thinks, almost scoffing. _Of course I want to leave all of your dirty dishes exactly as they are in the sink and let you organize your books however you want-- which equals not organizing them at all, most of the time. Of course I want you to kiss me right now. If I didn't want to I'd be a poor excuse for a girlfriend_ _, but_... She lets her eyes drop to his lips for a moment and then glances at the dishes in the bottom of the sink. _But I haven't earned that sort of free time yet_.

He reads her as well now as well as he always does. She can see it in the way his eyebrows furrow and he pulls back from her another inch, blue eyes flicking over her face in something that looks so much like concern she wonders what he is thinking. "Lux," he sighs after a moment, and he sounds tired and like he wants to say more than he is. She thinks her own eyebrows knit together in worry, but she does not say anything about it. He takes a step sideways and picks up the same dish he was drying a moment ago and goes back to the task as though it has not dripped most of the water on its surface away.

She stares at him for a moment and worries her lip. After a moment, she takes a step away from the sink without picking up another dish and steps toward him, looping her arms around his waist and nuzzling her face between his shoulderblades. "Why is there a garden in your yard?"

"There's not," he snorts, but they both know what she means. He turns around to face her, his hands now empty, and she raises a brow at him. "It was my dad's," he says at her scolding look. "He loved to bring home exotic plants from places like Ionia and the Freljord. I used to sit out back with him while he planted them, but I could never figure out..." He looks frustrated, hands waving in the air, like he has a particular memory in mind but he's not certain how to articulate how he feels about it, and she waits patiently while he tries to piece it together. "Gardening's never been my thing," he says eventually, giving up, and she smiles sadly at him. She supposes that his parents didn't have time to teach him before... _Before_.

She leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Tell me about your father," she says, taking his hands and running her fingers over the knuckles of his gauntlet-free hand. (They're not covered by his single fingerless glove for once. She imagines it would get uncomfortable when working with wet dishes.)

"What? Why?" He sounds genuinely taken aback.

"You always speak so highly of him... I want to know more about the person in all of your stories." His expression melts into one of fondness and he takes his hands from her to put them on her cheeks like he is going to kiss her. She does not complain.

He rests his forehead against hers and hums in thought, and she is surprised to find she thinks this is just as nice. "My dad wasn't the sort of big scary military man you find in Demacia," he starts, and she thinks this much is obvious based on the way Ezreal is built. (She would also never describe the men in her country as particularly big or scary.) "Dad used to tell me stories about their expeditions when I was going to bed at night. Mom always read me stories from books they got in Ionia or the Freljord or even just down in Zaun, and they were great, but the stuff Dad always told me was real. I guess it meant more to hear about what my parents were doing when they were..."

 _When they were away from me_.

"Do you not have books from Piltover?" He gives her a sort of confused glare. "You said your mother read books from other places. Why not books from Piltover?"

He pauses at this, leaning against the counter that the dry dishes are stacked on and staring off into space like this is something he has been pondering his whole life. She wonders if it isn't; if she hasn't probed too deep. "I think it was her way of sharing their adventures with me. Mom always loved books... I think she thought that sharing the books from all these places was like bringing little pieces of those worlds to my room. I still remember a lot of them, so I guess she was kind of right." He stares off for a moment and she waits for him to come back down to Runeterra from wherever his thoughts linger in space. "Tell me about your dad," he says once he does, startling her.

She turns back to the dishes so she can occupy herself, and he readies to dry again without question. "You've met my father," she says absentmindedly.

He doesn't even seem to think before he replies, "I barely met your father. I think he said twenty words to me the whole time we were in Demacia."

She passes him a spotless bowl while she considers this and tries not to let herself scrub the plate she picks up a second later too aggressively. _I hardly know anything about my father_ , she thinks, but she does not want to admit this to Ezreal even as she is pretty sure he already knows. " _Fadre_ used to..." She starts, then trails off for a moment. "When Garen and I were young, he taught us how to play chess. Garen was always so frustrated because he could never beat him, but... I did, a few times."

She smiles to herself at the memory and it takes her a moment to realize that she has stopped washing the plate in her hands. "Garen would throw fits, when we were particularly little, and say that our father let me win because I was spoiled. As we got older, he started to accept that perhaps I was just better at chess than him, but I remember this tantrum he threw the second or third time I beat our father that _Fadre_ always let me win because if he didn't I would have a fit. I was so upset at the time." She laughs under her breath like she is enjoying a private joke. "I think even he would see the irony in it now."

They're both quiet for a minute, and then she goes back to the dishes and he says, "So did he?" She hums, glancing up at him out of the corner of her eye, and he reaches out a hand to take the now-clean plate from her. "If I know you, Garen said your father was letting you win one too many times and you _did_ throw a fit and you asked him if he was letting you win. So was he letting you win?"

"Of course not," she scoffs, picking up an old-looking wooden mug that smells strongly of coffee and scrubbing harshly at its interior. "My father was the personal guard to King Jarvan III, an honorable soldier of Demacia. He would never let me win." When she looks over at Ezreal, he is poorly containing snickers. She flicks water at him from her fingers and he ducks to avoid it as though it is a swing from her staff.

"You're only proving my point," he says like a singsong, and she flicks water at him again. They finish the dishes in silence and he makes her take a break before he will let her do anything else, dragging her to the couch. "Tell me about... growing up with Garen. That had to be crazy."

"It was," she sighs, leaning her head on his shoulder while he traces the lines of her palm. "But by my count it is your turn to tell me about something," she says, and he glances at her with a single quirked brow. "Tell me about your uncle. The Professor." She clarifies like he might have more than just the one. (She supposes she doesn't actually know whether or not he does, though.)

He presses his mouth to her shoulder and hums thoughtfully. "He's very nosy." She laughs without meaning to, and then presses a hand over her mouth to contain it. "It's true! He's like Caitlyn, but suck out the awesome parts and replace them with old man beard. And he talks too much! He's always rambling about... I dunno, _whatever_ he was a professor of, I never listened." She giggles and smacks his arm lightly in reprimand, and he grins. He kisses her to stop her from laughing at him and she has to admit that it works. She lets him kiss her for a long minute, dragging him to lay back with her, until he murmurs against her lips, "Tell me about growing up with Garen."

She groans and pulls away, leaning her head back against the arm of the couch. He snickers at her.

"We didn't get to do very much growing up together. When he left to join the Dauntless Vanguard, I was eight. The years we did get to spend together were..." She trails off, furrowing her eyebrows. "I adored my brother. I used to make him carry me around High Silvermere on those broad shoulders of his and point things out like a little kid. I loved to see the way the sunlight reflected off of the water in fountains around the city from that high up." She thinks to the way he lifted her a clear foot off the ground without even noticing when she and Ezreal went to Demacia and chuckles to herself. "I suppose our relationship hasn't changed that much."

He hums and moves to lay on top of her as though sensing she is upset like a dog, and she laughs and tries to shove him off of her. To retaliate, he digs his fingers into her sides and she immediately begins to squirm and cackle until she is gasping for breath and she is sure there are tears in her eyes. He, in turn, laughs at her misery (at least this is how she chooses to interpret his laughter), hard enough that he almost forgets to keep tickling her. He only stops when they both nearly topple off the side of the couch, breathing heavy.

Once she catches her breath, she rolls to the floor as gently as she can from underneath him and he mutters about how that's not fair and tries to come tumbling after. She laughs as he barely catches himself with his forearms from falling on his face. "Come on, we should go to bed," she says, pushing herself to sit up.

"Are you sure?" He says, smirking at her, and she is sure he is about to tease her but she raises her eyebrows anyway. "You haven't alphabetized my bookshelves yet," he mocks, and she scoffs and smacks his shoulder again. He snickers at her and stands without help, and then they're moving around each other through very different bedtime routines. He moves an old, framed picture of his parents for the millionth time that she can remember, this time from the old desk in his study (she's always wondered if it was his or one of the scattered remnants of his parents that still lingers around the house) to the kitchen counter and she puts her hair into as neat a braid as she can on herself.

She lays curled on her side, head propped somewhere between his shoulder and his chest, and traces patterns on his stomach. "Tell me about how we met, pretty boy."

He hums and considers this. "You," he starts, rolling over to face her better and dropping his hand onto her hip, "were the most obnoxious person I had ever met. Well, I thought so. You were another Demacian spoiled brat who was just gonna demand I hold you above me for no reason. And I was right." She giggles and smacks his chest, and he grins and dips down to kiss her shoulder. "I wasn't sure whether I wanted you to leave or to never have met you in the first place. I liked the fighting, though. I think it started there."

"And then we got stuck," she says, and he hums.

"And then we got stuck," he agrees. "And you were still completely insufferable, by the way. And then much later, we got stuck again, and you were a little less insufferable."

"And you told me you loved me," she murmurs, and he huffs.

"Who's telling this story?" He says with a scowl, and she laughs. "...And I told you I loved you. And you said you wanted to kill me." She yelps and goes to roll over but he stops her with the hand on her hip. They make eye contact for a second and then he leans in to kiss her.

She pulls away after a minute, smiling softly at him. Even in the dark, she sees the fondness in his eyes. The marks on his cheekbones seem to illuminate his warm smile. "And _you_ kept bringing up that I said that like a brat, so I told you I loved you," she finally adds. He nods, stroking her hip in a manner that feels completely innocuous while she tries her best not to fall asleep.

"And now we're here," he says, letting his own eyes close.

"And now we're here," she repeats, cuddling her face into his neck.


End file.
